David Wishart - Last Rites

‘Yeah.’ Gods! What had happened to the simple Latin? ‘So what you’re saying is that the murderer was a friend of the family. Or at least he was familiar enough with the house to know the floor plan in detail.’ That was looking good for the Aemilia angle; it was her house, and if the guy were her lover she’d have orchestrated his movements herself. On the other hand, if Cornelia had been the target he’d’ve had to get his information some other way, and sorting that problem out would be a real bummer. ‘Okay. So our X is a top-drawer nobleman with an in to the Galba household, young enough and pretty enough to be able to pass for a woman at close range. Great! That should -’

‘Wait a moment, Marcus. I haven’t finished. On the other hand, he shows features which definitely do not fit the average upper-class gentleman.’

‘Such as?’

‘To begin with, how many of your acquaintances can play the flute? Or any other instrument, for that matter? Not just adequately, but well enough to be accepted by professionals as an equal?’

‘Uh…’ Hell’s teeth! I hadn’t thought of that! And the lady was right; sure, some families – especially the ones with strong Greek connections and artistic leanings – encourage their sprogs to play a musical instrument or sing, but for the Roman aristocracy in general there’s always been something very suspect about the performing arts. If I’d ever told Dad I wanted to learn the harp he’d’ve started checking my clothes chests for bras.

‘Together with that, how did X know so much about the fluteplayers’ booking arrangements? Enough to ensure that he would be able to take the place of one of the girls who was herself a last-minute appointment and be accepted as such by the others? And not only take the girl’s place but convince them that he was a close friend of the actual girl in question?’

Thalia! Bugger! We kept going back to Thalia! That lady I just had to meet. If anyone held the key to all this it was her. ‘You got anything else to throw into the pot, lady?’ I said sourly. ‘Or should I just give the case up now?’

She ignored me. ‘Third and last – although it’s a very small point in comparison – there’s that knife of yours. You’re right; it is not a high-class Roman’s weapon. Oh, I’m not saying that a nobleman would have used a blade from Toletum with gold studs and an amethyst in the hilt but, as you remarked, that particular knife combines cheapness with careful and laborious attention. As a murder weapon for someone of the same social standing as the victim it just doesn’t fit.’

Jupiter on wheels! ‘You finished now, Perilla?’

‘I think so. Unless you can think of anything further.’

‘Uh, no. No, lady, I’d say that about covered it for the time being.’ I cleared my throat. One of my cardinal rules is never, never , to let Perilla know how smart she is; the lady can be really insufferable, especially when she’s right. Which is ninety-nine per cent of the time. I’ve found the best tactic is simply to change the subject. ‘Did, uh, Bathyllus say anything about dinner, by the way?’

‘I asked him to wait until sunset. I want to watch the clock.’

‘Oh. Right.’ I was beginning to have serious doubts about that thing where Perilla was concerned. It was the fruit juice cocktails all over again; when the lady gets an obsession you can’t shift it, and this obsession wasn’t healthy. I got up from the couch and walked over to the mass of gleaming bronze piping in the corner. The little Victory’s pointer was about halfway between the twelve and the very top of the scale. Half an hour to go, then. My stomach rumbled. ‘You think we could maybe just have the starters to be going on with?’

‘Don’t be silly, Marcus. If we go into the dining-room now by the time we’ve settled down and Bathyllus has brought them it’ll be so close to sunset that we’ll miss the changeover. Which reminds me: we’ll need a stepladder and a bucket to transfer the water back up to the cistern. Bathyllus can do that while I operate the ducks.’

Oh, bugger. Double bugger. I went over to the passageway that led to the kitchen and yelled, ‘Bathyllus!’

He was there in two drips of a clepsydra. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’re on bucket duty tonight, little guy. One bucket, one stepladder front and centre spit-spot. Got it?’

Bathyllus glanced at the water clock and gave the thing his best sniff. ‘I’ll send Alexis immediately, sir,’ he said.

‘Not Alexis, pal. You.’

‘But sir, as your head slave it’s not my place to -’

I held up my hand. He stopped. ‘Listen, sunshine. We’re all in this together, right? If I have to put off dinner until a little fucking bronze titan taps his little ditto anvil with his little ditto hammer then the whole world suffers with me. Which prompts a thought. When you bring the bucket and the ladder have the rest of the staff up here too. We may as well all watch this scientific marvel together.’

Bathyllus was fizzing quietly. ‘Meton’s going to be very upset, sir,’ he said. ‘He’s serving rissoles of wild boar marinated in cumin, wine must and juniper and they need to be -’

‘Tell Meton from me he can take the very largest and most succulent of his rissoles and -’

‘ Marcus! ’ Perilla snapped.

‘Yeah, well.’ Jupiter in rompers! I just hoped these bloody all-singing-all-dancing clepsydras didn’t catch on. If we had to do everything on the ting of a titan Rome and the entire civilised world would grind to a halt.

We waited. And we waited. And we waited. Lysias the coach driver, impregnating the air of the room with the smell of wet horse, looked as bored as I felt. Alexis – the smartest of the bunch – looked interested. Bathyllus, clutching his bucket, looked pained and put-upon. And Meton, flexing his great size-ten hands and muttering darkly to himself, looked like he was mentally weighing the comparative merits of aconite and ground death’s-cap mushroom as an additive to the rissole seasoning. Yeah, maybe insisting on Meton showing up had been a mistake after all.

Behind them a Greek chorus of five or six minions, skivvies and assorted Other Ranks were having trouble enough just looking human.

The little Victory at the top of its pole suddenly trembled. A collective breath was drawn. One of the female skivvies was sick with excitement and had to be removed.

Perilla clapped her hands. ‘Oh, Marcus!’ she said. ‘I think it’s starting!’

‘Yeah.’ I had to admit, the excitement was getting to me, too. It was like the bit at the races just before the president drops the napkin.

Then everything happened at once. The little titan raised his hammer and brought it down with a ting! on the anvil. The drip… drip… drip became an intestinal gurgle and the Victory figure plummeted towards the bottom of her pole. And at the base of the whole contraption…

Tinkletinkletinklepssss…

At the base of the whole contraption the two flying cherubs were pissing into the basin. I grinned. Yeah, well, I supposed if you wanted the voiding of the water to look natural then that would be the obvious way to arrange things.

There was a terrible silence. Finally one of the minions sniggered and got a look from Bathyllus that made me wince just from the side-burn.

Perilla had gone red. She was glaring at the cherubs like they were doing it on purpose.

‘Marcus,’ she said, ‘that is gross! ’

I straightened my face. ‘Don’t blame me, lady. You bought it, it’s your clock. You should’ve inspected the plumbing arrangements in the shop.’

‘Listen, Corvinus, when I go shopping for statuary I am not in the habit of minutely examining the figure’s -’ She stopped and bit her lower lip. I waited. I knew what was going to happen next; it was just a matter of time. ‘However it is rather… I mean… if you think of…’